


My House in Budapest

by you_idjits



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bunker Fic, Future Fic, M/M, September 18
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-19
Updated: 2014-09-19
Packaged: 2018-02-17 23:20:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2326832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/you_idjits/pseuds/you_idjits
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something for September 18. Set in a world where everything is sunshine and rainbows and no one is a demon/dying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My House in Budapest

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from [Budapest](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VHrLPs3_1Fs) by George Ezra  
> Crossposted on [tumblr](http://shootingstarcas.tumblr.com/post/97864484006/happy-anniversary-you-dummies-two-songs-that)

Thursday morning, Dean wakes up with morning light falling on his face. He gets out of bed with the slow stiffness that comes with age, that comes with years of hunting and injuries that never quite heal. He dresses in the quiet of late morning, fumbles with boot laces and a wallet, jogs through the Bunker hallways to the garage.

Sam is out running, probably, and Cas is still asleep, probably. They’ve almost settled into a routine here, on the days when they’re not hunting. Sam runs, Dean cooks, Cas sleeps. They eat breakfast together, trade newspapers and look for cases.

Sometimes Charlie stays for a week. Sometimes Garth or Kevin or Jody drops by. Sometimes they go out to a diner in Lebanon. It’s easy.

Dean takes the car, drives to the nearest supermarket for supplies. He picks up a newspaper, then pauses, thumb caught beside the date. There’s something distinctly familiar about that number. September 18. Why does that ring in his mind?

He shrugs it off, folds the paper under his arm and keeps moving. But the whole drive home, the date presses at the back of his mind. He can’t puzzle out.

It’s only when Cas walks into the kitchen, hair wild and eyes sleepy, that Dean gets it. _September 18._ Oh- _oh_.

“Happy birthday,” he blurts, before his brain catches up with his tongue.

Cas squints at him. “What are you talking about?”

“Uh,” Dean says. He reaches for the newspaper on the kitchen counter, trips over his own feet. “It’s September 18. You remember?”

It takes a moment – Dean can almost see the cogs behind Cas’s eyes turning, and damn if it isn’t cute – but then Cas gets it too. “Dean Winchester is saved,” he says, and okay, Dean wasn’t expecting that to be his first reaction. “Of course. Today’s the day we met.”

“ _And_ your birthday,” Dean adds. “I mean, in this form. You’re six years old, huh? Should we buy you some Hot Wheels or something?”

Cas gives him a look. Dean gets that look a lot. It says, _I can’t believe I gave up Heaven for your stupidity_. “I was born millennia ago, Dean.”

“Yeah, but it’s not the same. Come on, man, it’s your birthday. What do you want for your birthday breakfast?”

Castiel shakes his head, laughs softly. “Human constructs are weird.” Like he’s still getting used to being one of them.

“Okay, dude, seriously. Pancakes? Bacon? I can do anything.”

“Coffee, to start.” Cas shuffles towards the counter, slides onto one of the stools. Dean stares at the lines of his back for a moment too long, then blinks away and puts a frying pan on the stove for eggs.

He thinks this is what happiness feels like.

Cas watches him cook and makes aimless chatter. The kitchen is bright and golden. Being here, with Cas, makes Dean feel like he’s been transplanted into someone else’s life: someone who gives smiles freely and holds hands with people in the street.

He makes eggs. He makes bacon. He nudges Cas in the ribs and says, “So, birthday boy. Anything special you want to do today? Or _anyone_?”

Cas laughs, and the laugh sloshes his coffee. “I’ve got a few ideas,” he says.

Dean thinks he might be in love with Cas. He thinks he might have been in love with Cas for six years.

So he leans across the counter and kisses him, just because he can. It’s warm and uneven and very quick.

“Dean,” Cas says, putting a hand over Dean’s heart and pushing back gently. “What are you doing?”

Dean reaches again, curls a hand up in Cas’s wild hair. “Shut up,” he says, “I’m busy kissing you.”

 


End file.
